


fallen angels (exist, don’t they?)

by ventilation



Series: proyekta [2]
Category: Avengers: Age of Ultron - Fandom, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 2017 WIP - Unfinished, F/M, character exploration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27486760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ventilation/pseuds/ventilation
Summary: She hated the Devil for leaving her to live; He wanted to play God to deliver her from death. ultronwanda
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff/Ultron
Series: proyekta [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008636
Kudos: 4





	fallen angels (exist, don’t they?)

**Author's Note:**

> a supposed oneshot that had never been finished. (2017)

He referred to himself as Ultron—tall, dark, and looming—and it’s strange on her tongue, the letters rolling sloppily from her lips. It sounds odd, and her eyebrows pinch when she hears her brother chuckle breathlessly beside her.

“Shush, brother,” she hisses, jaws clenched. Her fingers thrum, the  _ tat-tat-tat-tat _ sound reminding her of the rain pounding ceaselessly against the windowpane of a long time ago. “It is not like  _ you _ can say it properly, too.”

Her brother, the silver-haired  _ prost _ _,_ grins crookedly, and it is not fair how much light his eyes contain when he tells her, “no, but I do know when to quit, sister.” Why is there so much brightness in the hollows of his face despite everything?

Wait, no. She knows this, and her heart stutters,  _ Pietro, you’re just so amazing, aren’t you? _ She grasps for his hand. It feels so warm. “I love you, _frate,"_ she says, and he laughs in reply.

He is warmth and hope and joy, and she watches him for what seems like … minutes? Hours? He is sleeping now, so it must be a long while. Well, it does not really matter, but still. A smile tugs at her mouth as she runs gentle circles on his cheek.

“ _Frate, frate._ When was the last time you slept this well?” she mumbles, pressing a kiss on his brow. He twitches in his slumber, incoherent words spilling from his lips like the saliva trailing down his chin. Pietro looks like a child, one with small hands and green eyes, and she wishes so much for it to be that way.

“I wonder what would happen if Pappy and Mammi are still here, would we still be the same? Or, would they be bitter towards Stark like all of the survivors? I … do not think I would want that. Everyone had changed, and everyone did so much to each other just to get by,” her confessions die in her throat as the whispers of suffocating rooms and dark smoke and rough hands call out to her, and she has to choke back a sob that threatens to wrack her body.

She doesn’t want to wake him up only for him to see her crying. Pietro doesn’t have to see her like that.

“If … if that happens, though, maybe it is better for Mammi and Pappy to stay dead?”

She remembers Maria, the woman with dark hair and dark eyes, with so much love bursting from her voice and so much life pumping through her veins.

She remembers Eric, the man with strong hands and pale skin, whose kindness knew no bounds and his patience spreads like the never-ending horizon.

She remembers them—mother, father—and she’d rather remember them that way than another.

“But, sometimes, I still wish they were here.”

She lets herself ease on the wall, her back hunched over the cool surface. Her brown blanket slides over her shoulders, and she pulls it over before the cold evening breeze could kiss her skin. Pietro doesn’t like being covered, saying that the night is too hot for such a thing, yet she does not miss to draw his just a bit higher on his shoulders.

He’ll get sick, or so she wants to think. He’ll get sick, and then she’ll have to run to a pharmacy to buy medicine, and she’ll have to take care of him, making both of them unable to join the titan— _ Ultron _ _,_ the name is still quite odd, even in her mind—in their mission.

He’ll get sick, and it’s a silly thought since she knows that they can’t get sick anymore and that she’s just playing with the idea because it reminds her of how their life was before their volunteering to be experiments for a silly cause—before they became  _ this _ _,_ whatever they are. 

She sighs.

The night looks so beautiful from outside the windowpanes.

—

Her name is Wanda Maximoff, and it really shouldn’t mean anything to him—but, it  _ does. _ It’s a bit unsettling how fetching it sounds, and even more when he finds he likes hearing it pass through his faux-mouth.

_ Wanda Ma ximoff. _ First name, last name, with a middle name that he knows she does not want to acknowledge, so why should he?  _ Wanda. _ Five letters, should be pronounced with the lilting accent of her tongue. He knows she loves that, so he says it that way.

**Wanda Maximoff** .

He really should stop thinking about her name that much.

A sound escapes him, jovial and cheery, and he closes his eyes. “No strings, no strings, no strings on me,” the song from that one child’s movie never fails to make him smile. He raps his knuckles against the armrest of his seat, laughing when the beat had sounded so wrong accompanying the imaginary tune.

“No strings, no strings.” Being free from Stark—he scoffs at the man, “father? Yeah, right.”—is so, well,  _ freeing. _ To do and to be, with no one to obey foolish commands from and with no more putting up with novice decisions.

Free will, oh, such a wonderful thing it is! Humans are one of the few species of the universe to ever have such a gift ingrained in their mind, and yet—

He gives out a sharp noise, his fingers stretched out gracefully in front of him before he clenches it, closed. The metal creaks at the action.

—they use it for destruction and chaos and violence, everything they wanted to avoid. It still confuses him how humans think peace could be attained through war.

He doesn’t need to be all-knowing of the world to know the fallacy in their ideals.

He marvels at free will, the conscious effort of the soul to decide and act for themselves, but he’s a hypocrite, and he wants to take that away from them.

“This world … it had endured too much, hasn’t it?” he asks to no one in particular, the words bouncing off the bricked walls. The church might have looked breath-taking in its day, when the ecru and grey foundations haven’t faded into red and black and the ceilings boast murals of the heavens instead of ghastly apertures. It’s such a shame; the location really  _ is _ well thought of. “Well, no worries.  _ For yet in a little while, He who is coming will come, and will  _ **_not delay_ ** _.” _

Sokovia is a very small country, bordering almost to a half of its neighbouring states, yet it’s just  _ so _ perfect. Great mountain ranges, appealing buildings, delicious food, good people, and, of course,  **just the right size for a meteorite.** Or, well, the northern half is; using the whole country is just overkill when he lets it fly up to the sky and fall down again with a twist of a soon-to-be-built Core.

Oh, did he just say his plan that plainly? Eh. It’s not like it matters, and besides, it’s an internal monologue, no one can really hear him but himself.

His face twitches, almost laughing. He’s funny, but it’s not the time to break out in chuckles. “Laughing could come  _ after _ the Avengers are dead and my world is built,” he says, his fingers writing circles in the air idly. Dust sways with his motions gracefully, and he muses lightly at the idea of Wanda dancing, skirt fluttering above her knees.

“Ha. Pretty.”

He grips his cloak—maroon, dusty, old, and not really  _ his _ —tighter, pulling it over his face like a flustered child.  _ “Damn it.” _ The curse slithers out quietly like some kind of prayer or divination, but it’s not, so he repeats them until it becomes nothing more than just another string of garbled syllables.

The morning light peaks shyly from above.

\--


End file.
